The Headless Walrusman
by MissEgypt111
Summary: Movie-based, naturally. What if they had no horses...and rode walruses instead? Admit it, you're dying to know.
1. The Legend Himself

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The Headless Walrusman

Disclaimer: At this point I would like to say that I have nothing to do with _Sleepy Hollow_. If I did, why would I be writing the dirty work known as "fanfiction"? No, really. I want to know what your reasoning behind this is, damnit.

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Chapter One: The Legend Himself

It was said that the Hessian who came with them was slightly deranged if not wholly bloodthirsty. If the others were here to do their jobs, this entity was out for the pogrom alone.

His hair was a tangled mass of black and his teeth were sharpened to nasty little points. (It would always piss everyone else off whenever he'd win "Bobbing for Apples," for according to them, having filed teeth was cheating.) The Hessian's billowing, formidable cloak made it seem as though Satan himself were riding through the night, and at his trademark growl of a war cry, people fled. With good reason, too, I might add...as he was particularly fond of slicing off the victim's head in one quick, clean thrust. He had to sharpen his blade often to obtain the desired ability to decapitate in a single hack, but as he went through the trouble to file his teeth in order to appear sexier, he didn't mind. Heating the sword with hellfire was even easier.

His great black steed was positively fearsome. Easily the largest walrus around, he was the bull of his herd. The very tusks on the beast were enough to drive even the happiest of children to suicide. His monstrous rolls of blubber thundered with every smack against the ground, and the frightful noises issued from the creature were heard for miles. All the other walruses ridden into battle were plain and decidedly slower than the Hessian's mount.

Yet all good things must come to an end. Having slaughtered his path across the countryside for years, the Hessian was finally cornered on a winter day in the western woods of Sleepy Hollow, a God-fearing New England village. A horde of the king's men, fat and flabby as small walruses themselves, came riding up on midget walruses with too-long tusks that scraped against the ground, leaving long tracks in the snow. 

These midget walruses were no match for the Hessian's powerful steed, but as the Hessian had a sword with which he was very skilled, the flabby government nudists had rifles, whose ranges were much greater than a toss of the blade. However, these men lacked intelligence. When they should have been taking aim at the blood-loving murderer clad in black, they were instead prodding each other with their bayonets, giggling seductively.

"Oh, Leonard, you always know the right places," cooed the first idiot.

"The truth is, Gilbert, me love, I know thee very well now," came the reply.

"What about Victor? He needs some good loving, too," insisted Gilbert.

The third bastard called Victor shuddered. It wasn't that he didn't like sexual contact, but he was frightened of the bayonet's sharpness. (He wasn't as fond of pointy things as am I, you understand.) He longed for the days in which they'd just French kiss and call it good.

The Hessian had stopped for a minute, staring at these three sorry excuses for human beings as they commenced with the early stages of their mating rituals. It was one of those dirty situations in which one is disgusted by what one sees, yet is fascinated and unable to stop looking. He raised an eyebrow as if to say this whole thing was pathetic.

In their moronic flirting, Leonard's finger slipped onto the trigger, and as Gilbert nibbled on his earlobe, he became too excited to think straight. His hand tightened in a brief moment of rapture, and a bullet went pelting into the thick rolls of the Hessian's walrus.

The animal groaned and swung its massive head from side to side. One shot was hardly enough, but the Hessian leaned forward and stroked the beast's neck affectionately. "It's okay, Petunia," he whispered. 

"Hey!" shouted Victor in sudden comprehension. He pointed a short, scabby finger ahead of them into the clearing. "That's the man we're supposed to be hunting down!"

"Is it?" muttered Gilbert thickly through a mouthful of Leonard's earlobe.

Victor rolled his eyes. 

Leonard started in his saddle and jerked on the reins of his walrus, digging his heels into the blubber, urging the creature onward, also having realized that this was indeed their guy. He moved with the speed of an elderly woman on crack doing the worm.

Victor also attempted to get his walrus to move forward. When it didn't budge and instead began ridding itself of a rather large amount of excrement, he muttered, "Oh, screw it," and dismounted, running at the Hessian with his musket at the ready.

Leonard and Gilbert reluctantly followed suit, and the Hessian himself dismounted and ran to the edge of the clearing, unsheathing his deadly sword and preparing himself for a fight, letting his growl of a battle cry be heard.

The three soldiers raced up to him. It seemed a fair fight. Neither side had received any scars, emotional or otherwise. Finally the Hessian flung himself around, hopped a series of fallen, leafless, blackened trees, and stumbled into another reasonably sized clearing. The three fat guys didn't have too much work cut out for them; after all, the ground was covered in snow and the Hessian's tracks were hard to miss. Even so, considering the stupidity level among them, it took a slower time than it would for most. 

In the clearing were two identical twin girls. Each was dressed in white, and they seemed not older than eight. In one's arms was a load of firewood; in the other's arms was a single twig. They were staring up innocently. They also happened to be cycloptic. 

The Hessian put a finger to his chapped lips. "Shhh...."

"THIS ISN'T FAIR!" shrieked the one holding the load of sticks. "WE HAVE TO LIVE IN THIS BROKEN FOREST AND WE CAN'T EVEN GET NORMAL PEOPLE TO TALK TO EVERY NOW AND THEN! I'M GETTING SO LONELY FOR CIVILIZATION, I TELL YOU! I CAN'T TAKE THIS SHIT ANYMORE!"

The Hessian shook his head. That was sad. So much for running off. He could even hear the voices of his pursuers, not more than a handful of yards away in the fog.

"Hold up a second, Gilbert, me love," said the one called Leonard. "I've got to drain me trouser snake real quick like."

"Bloody hell," sighed Victor.

The air was suddenly thick with the scent of fresh urine.

__

Bloody hell, thought the Hessian.

The second twin girl snapped the twig she had been holding motionlessly for a few minutes now. The sound echoed through the forest just as the other's angry screams had.

"Hey, that's him!" said Victor, moving ahead, weapon poised.

There was another scuffle. Just as it seemed the Hessian was going to have his way with all three of them, Victor ducked under his arm, drew his own sword, and in an effort to give this "freak" a taste of his own medicine, swung it across the Hessian's neck, decapitating him.

The grave was hastily dug. The girl who had snapped the twig remained behind, watching from a patch of deadly nightshade. Her single eye was closed, and she seemed to be in a state of meditation, muttering abstract phrases under her breath. The body of the fallen legend was thrown unceremoniously into the hole which would be his final resting place, closely followed by his severed head. 

Petunia, his faithful walrus, thudded off into the woods on a dirt trail. Petunia would continue to pound the western woods for years after his master's death, until his own came to pass.

None of them were aware of the horrors to come. None, except for the little girl who had lingered briefly.

Heads will roll.


	2. The One and Squeamish Ichabod Crane

FIRSTLY....! I extend my demented thank-you to Sanely Challenged for pointing out that movie fics are generally thrown into the _Sleepy Hollow_ book section. My story now resides here. Be happy for me.

Disclaimer: I still want to know why I'd be writing "fanfiction" if I've got something to do with the movie. I don't have anything to do with any songs or product names mentioned, either. So there.

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Chapter Two: The One and Squeamish Ichabod Crane

Van Garrett was seated in the comfortable back of his stagecoach, looking from side to side nervously. The area in which he rested was comfortable, sure, but he himself was not. The skies were alive with lightning and the whole world seemed like it wanted to consume him. He wished the pair of walruses which pulled his little carriage were faster. To calm himself, he began humming.

"My sex change operation got botched, my guardian angel fell asleep on the watch, now all I've got is a Barbie doll crotch..." Van Garrett sung quietly. So what if it was from _Hedwig and the Angry Inch_?

The ominous sound of a sword being drawn cut through the air like lightning, and Van Garrett wheezed in alarm. He was suddenly aware that his walruses weren't the only ones riding the trail. His fears were confirmed when he heard a sudden slice and the roll of what could only be the coachman's head. Frightened, alone, and wishing he was pretty, Van Garrett looked out of the window to verify this. Indeed, the walruses were now slamming themselves along without guidance, for their driver was decapitated. 

There was nothing else to do... Hurling himself onto the ground, he took flight into a shriveled corn field, gasping "I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty, and witty, and gaaayyy..." between bursts of energy. He stopped dead, however when he came to a scarecrow with a jack-o-lantern for a head that looked like it had been carved by some artistic mental asylum escapee. It was freakish and yet attractive at the same time....and then there was a rustling from behind. With a final wheeze of fear, his own head was dismembered and taken by the same blade.

–

1799 in New York City looked lonely. There were street vendors drooling and smacking themselves with fish, even after business hours were over. Rumor had it that none of them could stay away from the bottle. Walruses transported people all over the cobblestone streets with delightful slapping noises as they lurched along.

And Ichabod Crane sat on the edge of a fishing dock, giggling maniacally while poking a bloated, greyed, waterlogged corpse with a stick. He'd recently found it bobbing along in this eddy in the river. It had to be the least attractive thing he'd ever seen. 

Two officials were strolling along the darkened street in his general direction. One of them was laughing hysterically at the other, who was slightly red in the face. "What do you mean, you got a gift certificate for a vasectomy for your birthday?" the first howled gleefully.

"Shut it, Smith," hissed the other through clenched teeth. "This is not my day."

"Clearly not," replied Smith, tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks. "So are you going to use it, or what?" he managed finally, between giggles.

"Of course not! It's insulting! Especially since Lillian gave it to me!"

"You fancy her, don't you?"

"I said to shut the gaping orifice you call a mouth!"

Still, Smith could not help chortling quietly. Feeling slightly sorry all of a sudden, he wanted to change the subject. It helped when he spotted someone ahead. "Constable Crane, that you?"

"Yes," replied Ichabod. "I've found something." He hurriedly tossed the stick with which he had done the poking aside and tried to sound professional. "He's been dead for some time now."

A few minutes later found the liquidly obese corpse being carted into the courthouse, and Ichabod found himself speaking to one of his superiors. "But we don't know the cause of death! Let me just do an autopsy –" 

"When you find him in the river, the cause of death is drowning," intoned the ugly bastard to whom the constable spoke. The truth was, the ugly bastard knew the cause of death could possibly be murder, but he had never liked this Ichabod Crane guy very much. He wished that he had Ichabod's great looks, his pallid complexion and dark hair, his expressive eyes...but no, he was as unsightly as it was possible to be, and instead of attracting women, small boys made a habit of trotting up to him and humping his leg. It wasn't fair. He then added, "Slicing each other up, indeed... Are we animals?"

Two more officials raced in, dragging a haggard bum by the arms. "We caught him anally raping a butterfly, sir!" one of them said.

"Alright then." The ugly bastard nodded, consenting to the haggard bum's imprisonment.

"But you don't know if the butterfly was willing or not!" interjected Ichabod, eyes alive with the injustice of the situation. "If the butterfly was willing, then you can't accuse this man of rape! You don't even know if they're telling the truth!"

But the two men were already opening a wrought-iron hatch, shoving the butterfly raper into the opening of his cell. He yelled as he plummeted down into it, but no one really gave a damn. Ichabod focused his attention instead on a strange moaning noise issuing from the street below. Stepping away from his ugly superior he stared out of the barred window to see that two walruses were vigorously having sex in front of a crowd of onlookers. 

"Those damn walruses have been going after it all evening," said the ugly superior, following Ichabod's stare. "It's nothing new, I promise."

–

"It's the same thing with you, every time, Constable Crane," said Judge Screwball the next morning, yawning. "You've always got this thing for – for justice, and factual whatnots."

"Your point?" replied Ichabod, standing, slightly annoyed.

"I can do one of three things for you. I can hold you in contempt, or I can make you anally rape a butterfly and have you see for yourself how much the butterfly likes it...or thirdly, I'll have you do your factual investigating that you love so much in the town known as Sleepy Hollow. There have been a series of murders there...each of the victims found with his head...lopped off."

"Lopped off?" Ichabod had gone from slightly annoyed to slightly nervous. His facial cheeks twitched.

"Yes," continued Judge Screwball, "and I want you to go there, find the murderer, and bring him back here to face justice. Will you do this?"

"I shall." Another facial cheek twitch.

"Remember...it is you, Ichabod Crane, who is now put to the test."

"I hate you," came the answer, but the constable picked up his bag of screwy homemade instruments and left the courthouse to pack the rest anyway. 

In his lofty apartment, Ichabod was busy organizing letters, random scraps of parchment, and articles of clothing. He made sure that any other device of his own design was thrown in with the rest. Now he stopped, gingerly picking up the round card suspended between two pieces of string, the optical game he'd had forever. On one side of the card was the image of a birdcage, on the other a cardinal. Taking it by the strings and spinning it, he stood mesmerized, watching the bird appear trapped and free at the same time. He then strode over to his actual pet cardinal inside its actual cage, grabbing it in one quick movement, only to carry it to the window and release it.

Ichabod looked down at the street from his loft without much emotion. His ride was already there, a sleek black coach led by two mismatched walruses. One was positively immense with tusks the size of kayaks. The other was very small and very young, with three tusks instead of two, all of which had grown into ringlets in its short life. Shaking his head, Ichabod departed.

Over a twisted road he traveled, sitting there, playing with the cardinal-in-a-cage image, looking out at the fog-immersed world of oddly shaped trees. 

He didn't know what he'd gotten himself into. 


End file.
